


swallowing stars

by transiock



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Famous Harry, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Healing, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Mild Smut, Past Rape/Non-con, Redeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23759998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: Draco finds his catharsis in visiting pubs and clubs and the drama that his Dark Mark carries. His normal pattern is ruined when he meets someone far more famous than his Mark and ends up opening up to him about his past.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 52





	swallowing stars

**Author's Note:**

> TW: mentions/implications of non-con. It's not described graphically and neither is the consensual sex between Harry and Draco, though the consensual stuff is mentioned in slightly more detail.

It had been years since that night. Draco could still hear the whisper of Bellatrix in his ear, could still feel the tension in the air, how the moment was tight and tense between him and Dumbledore until it was broken by Snape. The green and the midnight blue danced together in slow motion. And the way Dumbledore fell-- more than gravity pulled him down as he reached for Draco, for anyone, but his eyes looked hopeless-- it had been stuck in Draco’s mind ever since.

He would wake up in sweats, his platinum blonde hair matted to his forehead, his arm aching, itching, feeling like his own private black hole. Draco would spend those nights feeling utterly hopeless, utterly evil. If it was particularly bad, he wouldn’t be able to get up the next day. Blaise and Pansy checked on him often enough to make sure he didn’t rot away in his bed and that he had at least one decent meal (Blaise had taken up cooking after their seventh year, and it preoccupied him enough to never talk about anything that happened). He would usually snap out of it by next morning and none of them would bring it up.

If Draco wasn’t in his bed wishing for death or a lobotomy, he was in some other man’s bed until morning. After everything that happened, there were plenty of young men looking to smother their sorrows in the laps of strangers. And it felt good to be useful to someone in that way, to keep their mind off of the worst events of their life. 

It was usually men who had been at Hogwarts the year of the war, who lived under Umbridge, and then the Death Eaters, who still had the long and slick voice of Voldemort stuck in their heads. They would feel satisfied in seducing someone with the Dark Mark, and Draco would feel as though he’d done his good deed for the day. It was a win-win every time. Usually, he could get Blaise and Pansy to go along with him and they would all be in such a better mood the next day. It was the kindest thing he could do for them.

On this night in particular, Draco felt at the top of his game. He was swaying with the man behind him, connected at the hips, the stranger’s mouth on Draco’s shoulder, hands on his waist as they moved together, eyes closed. The music was loud enough to feel in his bones, to rattle his ribcage and heart and make him feel something close enough to love. He could picture the look on the man’s face when he spotted his Dark Mark, as his glance quickly tried to work out why Draco looked so familiar. It was the best, most indulgent part. He wasn’t famous, people didn’t stop him in the streets and hurl curses at him, but he was notable enough to be in the back of everyone’s head. All it took was a small reminder.

Pansy was at home, but Blaise was in the corner of the bar trying to flirt with anyone that moved while buying enough drinks to knock out the whole building. The idea of him turning and seeing the ease of movement between Draco and the stranger drew a smirk onto Draco’s face. He tilted his head back, eyes fluttering open for half a second--

“Closed. Keep them closed, and I--I’ll keep mine,” the stranger said, his voice quiet as his hand snaked up across Draco’s stomach, chest, to his neck where his fingers wrapped gently, providing the smallest bit of pressure on either side. It told of experience, eagerness, and a probable need for control. Draco was willing to let himself melt to the touch, his own sort of control knowing that the man was harmless and would most likely listen if Draco told him to stop. He kept his eyes closed. 

The hand on his waist moved to his hip, then to his inner thigh. It sent a shock up Draco’s spine, the thought of someone being so bold to claim him so completely without even letting him see his face, someone easily balancing his need to claim and his aura of harmlessness. Now  _ this _ was the energy Draco had been looking for. 

Draco kept his own voice to a whisper, slow and intentional, “Take me to your place.”

The man’s lips moved softly over the curve of Draco’s ear, “Do you not have a place of your own?”

“I’ve got roommates. They’ll fuss.”

“Maybe I have roommates.”

Draco’s grin grew wider, “You wouldn’t have phrased it like that. You have your own place at a time like this. And you don’t want me seeing your face. Who are you?”

Draco could feel a grin against the back of his neck, “Excited to have a famous lay?”

“I consider myself a thrill-seeker,” Draco said calmly, “Doesn’t mean I’m not able to keep a secret, whoever you are. I’m used to being the one who’s recognized.”

“Mm. Makes it tempting to have a look at you.”

Draco laughed before he could think better of it, “You’re the one who made the deal.”

“Well… I suppose we can’t get out of here without knowing each other,” he said, sneaking his hand higher up Draco’s thigh.

“Only makes sense. Can I ask one thing?” 

“Mm.”

“Can we agree to have no reaction?” Draco asked, “I don’t want heads turning.”

The stranger pressed a kiss to Draco’s neck and it was so tender it nearly stung; the feeling of not-quite-love shifted within himself and Draco wondered for how long he had been craving such beautiful and dangerous affection. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

“Wonderful. No expression.”

“No expression.”

“Should I turn or do you want to?”

He laughed and the second kiss drew the softest of moans out of Draco. “You turn.”

Draco composed himself while the man pulled his hands away and stood tall in the middle of the hot, humid crowd. Draco turned. His hair was messy as ever, dark as pitch, and his eyes were a sharp, lively green, unobstructed by the glasses Draco had formerly grown accustomed to. He was recognizable regardless.

“Malfoy?”

“Potter.” Draco whispered.

“No reaction, you promised.”

“No, yes, right. None.”

He took a good look at the man in front of him. Time had seemed to slow down as Draco took a step forward. He placed his hand on Potter’s cheek, flushed and warm, and leaned forward. Their noses just barely touched, their warmth shared and buzzing between them. Draco felt the weight of the world and the crowd pushing on his back. Potter leaned in the rest of the way, his hand on the back of Draco’s head, fingers in his hair, fucking up the neat, slick style he held his hair in. Draco could’ve never imagined something like this in all his years of desperate midnight fantasies at Hogwarts.

Draco pulled back and rested his forehead on Potter’s shoulder. Potter pulled Draco close. It felt like aftershocks, like some of what made Harry Potter so ethereal, so above, had slipped into Draco’s body and it was so much it nearly tore him apart. 

“Let’s go to mine,” Potter said, and in the next moment, the music had died down, the floor beneath them had changed, and the air was replaced with the faint smell of warmth and treacle tart. Draco felt comfortably bound by the comfort of Potter’s arms around him. How long had he been wishing for it? How long could he have wanted to be enchanted by the simple touch of a familiar soul? 

Potter lifted Draco’s face. His room was dark, but Draco could see the vines that wrapped around his walls and headboard, could see the stacks of books on the floor, and the clothes littered about. There was a wardrobe in the corner with a long mirror on its doors, a wide bed with pale sheets that looked grey in the darkness. The bed wasn’t made, the wardrobe was half-open, Potter seemed to know no shame about the state of things. He simply sat on the side of his bed, taking Draco’s hands in his, pulling him into his lap. Draco easily straddled his legs.

“The most surprising thing,” Draco said, a very small kiss placed on Potter’s shoulder, “Is that you were dancing like that.”

“I thought you and Pansy were a thing. Or that other one--”

Draco shook his head, “Mother wanted--” he exhaled, “She wanted anything but this, honestly. Our name is already ruined, she didn’t want to tack on this sort of behavior.”

“Sleeping with strangers?”

“With men, Potter. She’d rather me marry a Mudblood.”

“That’s an awful word, Malfoy.”

“Muggle-born, whatever, that’s not the point.”

“Right.” Potter looked him in the eye and the intensity was unlike anything Draco had ever felt. It was so much. It was overwhelming.

“Sorry,” Draco said, “I know it’s not that easy. I know it feels easy to say because of how I was raised and all that. I should understand that.”

“Malfoy--”

“I am trying to do better,” Draco said, keeping his eyes locked on Potter’s. He stayed quiet, his hand firm on Draco’s waist. Draco broke the contact, his gaze soft on Potter’s chest. The space between both of them contained years; Draco wanted to hold the time in his hands and change all of it. He wanted to do so many things differently. 

“I never blamed you, not really and not for long. You were just a kid.”

“ _ You _ were just a kid too, Potter. How come you were able to make all the right decisions?”

“A lot of the time, I didn’t want to. It would’ve been easier to just stop fighting. Hermione actually suggested we stay in the woods when we were running from everyone, she said we could stay hidden forever, leave everything else behind.” He smiled fondly, as you would at a child, “But I had people dying for me, Malfoy. If I gave up, if I turned to the other side, everyone I had ever learned to care about would be ruined. I never did it for myself.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his finger, “Does that sound familiar?”

Draco took his hand in his own and pressed it against his chest. The pale light of early morning was beginning to shine through the room, and the way it shone in Potter’s eyes was something inexplicable. The following kiss was gentle, a connection between two battered souls, a shared yearning for care and love. It was the closest Draco had ever gotten.

They fell back onto the bed, Draco moving to Potter’s neck, eager to claim as much of him as possible. Potter’s fingers were tangled in the waist of Draco’s trousers, then his buttons. It wasn’t much longer until Draco’s, along with both their trousers. He was left in his briefs on top of Potter, hands on his hips, breath in his ear. He felt incandescent. He felt lighter than air. 

Potter flipped them both over, lifting his own shirt above his head and the first few seconds of contact was unearthly. Draco became only the places where Potter’s hands touched, became only what Potter wanted. They moved as one tide until the sun shone and glistened on Potter’s back. Draco, taken hold of by an impulsive passion, grabbed a handful of Potter's raven hair and pulled his head back. Potter's eyes shone with a certain shyness coupled with the spark of thrill. 

Draco grinned. "You like that." 

Potter lost little footing, though his face was flushed, "And you like my scar."

Draco pulled him backward and with one graceful motion was back on top of him, pinning his arms to the foot of the bed, "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. And don't act like you don't get some sick satisfaction out of seeing my Dark Mark."

He froze, "you still have it?"

A look passed between the two of them. Draco loosened his grip, Potter grabbed his wrist, and in a gesture that would make even the most romantic cringe, he pressed the Mark to his lips, gently and kindly with a reverence pointed toward the skin it was attached to and lacking the fear of what it symbolized. 

"Don't--"

"It doesn't have any power over you, or me, anymore. You shouldn't let it." 

In the space of those few words, Draco's torso caved in on itself. He pushed his head against Potter's shoulder. What a stupid thing to say. What a reckless thing to think. Draco couldn't imagine going back to a world where the Mark wasn't what controlled him. It always would and You-Know-Who planned on it. It was the most cruel form of immortality. 

Potter wrapped his arms around Draco. He was less scrawny than Draco remembered, and his arms felt protective. Safe. 

“Sorry,” Draco said softly.

“No need to be.”

“Still.”

Potter pressed a kiss to the top of Draco’s head, “Neither of us expected to run into each other. It’s not easy.”

“And it’s shitty that you’re the beacon of the past, Potter. You’re everything that happened then.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Draco laughed which pushed a few tears onto Harry’s shoulder. It was, funny enough, the calmest Draco had felt in a long while. He had wound himself so tightly, he had been so worried that letting go even a little bit would mean falling apart. Maybe this is what it felt like to fall apart. 

He inhaled slowly and dropped to his side. Potter turned so they were face to face. His eyes were shining in the early sun, tears of his own clinging to his dark eyelashes. He held Draco by the back of his neck, kissed the tip of his nose, and hesitantly met his lips. There was a change in the air between them, and Draco found himself being okay with it. The intense and overwhelming passion between them had broken, much like a fever, and they laid beside each other recovering. 

“Would you mind if I slept here?”

Potter shook his head, “Not in the slightest.” He kicked and shifted the sheets so they were covered, their arms and legs overlapping but not intentionally intertwined, and they fell asleep at the foot of the bed with both of their worlds turned upside down.

\--

Draco’s eyes were always puffy in the morning. One side of his face was red from the warmth of the shoulder it had been pressed into all night. He splashed water on his face in nothing but his briefs, standing in Potter’s bathroom, which was, frankly, a mess. His shampoo was lying in the ceramic bathtub on its side, towels were piled in the corner, his toothbrush was laying on the counter without a holder, and the toothpaste didn’t have a cap. 

“No one else is gonna do it, I guess,” he mumbled to himself. Draco wasn’t the most adept with cleaning charms, but he knew a few useful ones. He levitated what he could off the floor and scoured everything the best he could. It really shouldn’t have been hard for Potter to do himself in his free time, not that Draco knew what he did in his free time-- or any other time. This Harry Potter was practically a stranger.

Potter was still sound asleep, wrapped in the blankets he had hogged all night. Draco placed the towels in what he assumed was a laundry hamper, put on his pajama bottoms and slipped out of the room. 

Potter’s house was not bloated with the sorts of things rich Wizards tended to buy. He had no Werewolf heads or self-polishing shoes, no velvet cloaks or gold quills. He didn’t have counters made out of dragon ivory or a dozen rooms with four-poster beds. His house, instead, was cramped and cozy, warm like the rest of him. He had a fireplace and shelves of books that overflowed onto the den floor. The floor itself was stained oak, the sofa a small, floral loveseat that looked like it had come straight from the Weasley’s suffocated burrow. A couple of other tacky, squishy chairs framed the rest of the room, while a wobbly table sat outside of it between the den and the kitchen, a chessboard on top of it and two four-legged stools on either side. 

He went into the kitchen, opened the cupboards, found a simple glass and carried it back into the bathroom. He placed Potter’s toothbrush in the glass, and on turning around saw Potter himself standing in the doorway with nothing covering him. Draco was glad he had already set the glass down. 

“Potter.” Draco said, as calmly as possible.

He grinned, “Malfoy. May I enter my own bathroom, please?”

“Right, yes.” He stepped aside and slipped out once Potter was at his sink. He was stupidly fit, the man. And he had a sort of cockiness to him in the daylight.

“You tidied up?” 

“It was disgusting. I could hardly breathe in there,” Draco said, sitting on the edge of Potter’s bed, legs crossed, reclined on his elbow.

“Drama queen.”

“King, Potter, please.”

“Not the last time you’ll beg me,” he mumbled.

Draco flung a sock at him. Potter laughed.

“Would you mind throwing me my pants instead?”

“I would. I’m enjoying the show.”

Harry looked over his shoulder, that wide grin plastered on his face. “Come here, Draco.”

“And why would I do that?”

He turned around and leaned back on the sink. His legs were wide and strong. His arms were sturdy, unshaking as he held himself up. His torso lean but sculpted, and the rest of him-- Merlin. His skin was lit in patches of golden sunlight that shone on the most beautiful parts of him and shadow which only served to call attention to the light. Draco had never felt more homosexual in his entire life, to be quite honest. 

Potter took a slow step towards him, the light dancing on his skin. He leaned down and took Draco’s face in his hands, as tender as anything. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips, slow and sweet, pure of intent. Draco let himself fall back, let Potter once again take control. He dipped his hand under Draco’s pajama bottoms and curled his fingers around the front of his briefs. The sound Draco made, light and yearning, was unlike anything he had ever heard before, was less like the pants of impulse and passion and more akin to the sighing of trees.

“I never got to get you off, Malfoy.”

“Potter--” He sighed, near whimpering under his touch.

“You’re so pleasant nowadays. Have you always been this soft?”

“Shut up, Potter.” 

“You’re so nice. Willing to let me have my fill, mm?” He asked, pressing another kiss to Draco’s neck, no doubt leaving a mark, “Let me have you, Draco, I’ll be gentle.”

“Harry, please--” he was cut off by his own moan.

“I have you. I have you.” 

He came quickly and without much grace, his fingers digging into Harry’s arm, his back arched, his breathing unsteady. He felt like an ivy reaching for the sunlight, climbing and greeting the warmth with open arms. He felt complete and perfected in a way only fate could allow him to, in a way only Harry ever had. 

He collapsed onto the sheets, a collection of sun-warmed bones. Harry drew him close and wrapped him in the blanket they had slept with. He mumbled something, but Draco’s ears were ringing. He might not ever recover, he thought, his head might always be this fuzzy, this bogged down. He might be ruined because of Harry.

“Did I not say I’d be gentle?” Harry asked.

“You did.”

“And was I not?”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a centaur.”

Draco could feel Harry’s smile against his forehead, an odd sensation. 

“In a good way, I hope.”

“It’s surprisingly relaxing. Feels like-- letting everything go, all at once.”

A beat of a pause. 

“I’m glad, Draco.”

He inhaled sharply, then lifted his head, “Suppose I should have a go at returning the favour, mm?”

Harry laughed, “If you’d like. Though, I should be getting to work soon. I’m usually only fashionably late.”

“Hm. I’d never take you for late.”

He shrugged.

“I have a record, you know. One minute.”

Harry’s brow raised, “One minute? Liar.”

Draco smirked, “Would you like to bet?”

“Five galleons says it’ll take longer than a minute. You took longer.”

“Yes, but see, I was serviced by you. If I had a go at myself, it would take half the time.”

Harry laughed, his head tilting back, “You’re mad. Go on, then. Show me.”

Draco gave Harry a quick but sturdy kiss before slipping under the covers. Harry, the morning after, tasted like cinnamon and cloves, like the perfect autumn afternoon. Draco ran his tongue down Harry’s chest, down his stomach to his hips. The weight of Harry in his mouth was like a key in a lock. The way they moved together, no matter in what position, felt like a perfection of Draco’s being, as if he had always been meant to me in union with Harry. 

It did take less than a minute, a claim Draco hadn’t made lightly, and one he upheld with ease.

\--

Draco used to have these long, elaborate fantasies before he would fall asleep. It would always involve Harry saving him, bringing him towards the light, showing him that anyone could be good if they tried hard enough. And it would always involve Snape, or You-Know-Who, or Dumbledore getting what was coming to them. 

“What was coming to them?” Harry asked, the sunlight now white and bright through the room. 

“Death. A lot of the time. Sometimes Azkaban.” 

“Dumbledore too?”

“It was his plan in the end, yeah? He could’ve-- He could’ve helped me. He could’ve told everyone to piss off. He could’ve prevented literal children from being his cannon fodder.”

“He wasn’t like that--”

Draco’s eyes watered, but his gaze was sharp as ever, “Then what was he like, Potter? Tell me all the wonderful things about the man who left me with Snape even when--” He shook his head.

“Even when what, Draco?”

He shook his head harder and sat up, holding his weight on one arm while the other ran through his hair, “Nothing. Just-- Fine. Forget it, yeah?”

“What did he do?”

Draco inhaled, his breath shaky and threatening to collapse his lungs, “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with Your Highness.”

“Ha,” Potter said dryly, “What did you need protecting from, Draco?”

In a flash of a moment, he felt like the floor was sinking from him, like the room was growing and shrinking all at once. He felt like his heart was about to pop out of his chest and yell at him for saying this much. “I don’t want to talk about it, Potter.”

He laid his hand over Draco’s. “Alright. I’m okay with listening, though. If you need it. I should let them know I’m not gonna be in, anyway.”

Draco huffed, “Don’t do it on my account, alright?” He said as Harry rolled out of bed and started looking around for his wand, “I’m not some pet project.”

He just laughed, found his wand, and walked out the door to his den. Draco, as though the string that had been holding him upright had snapped, collapsed onto the bed. It was a very comfortable bed. The sheets were still warm, and the duvet was heavenly and heavy, as duvets should be. Draco planted face-first into it and laid there until Harry came back.

It had been forever since he had even thought about this stuff whilst even moderately sober, much less tried to talk about it. And the last time he did-- To be looked in the eye by the adults that were supposed to protect you and know that they were willing to throw you aside if it meant their plans went smoothly-- Draco fell apart that year. Sixteen and with the world on his shoulders, with the fate of the world in his hands it seemed like. He felt responsible for so much and in charge of so little. He felt hopeless for that whole year and never wanted to feel like that again. He figured, when he did think about it (drunk and weeping), that sixth year was the reason he coped in the way he did, the reason he flung himself into beds that made him feel noteworthy and powerful. If that Mark was to give him anything but nightmares, it would be fame and orgasms. Draco assured that.

Harry came back into the room in only his pajama bottoms that he had picked up from the floor. He leaned against the doorway. He was tall and handsome and should’ve been the ideal distraction, but Draco was so fully caught up in his head, fully tangled and consumed, that he couldn’t unravel himself even enough to be distracted. Harry walked across the room, laid his hands flat on Draco’s back, and with the gentlest of pressure, began rubbing his shoulder blades.

“I didn’t mean to push.”

Draco shook his head, “Not your fault, Harry.”

Harry kissed the nape of his neck with a slow grace. “I have the day off. Technically. We can go somewhere.”

Draco shook his head with a sigh. “If I don’t talk about it now, I’m… I’m worried I never will. I’m worried it’ll keep eating me alive.”

“I’m here to listen, Draco. But don’t think I’m trying to pry, mm?”

“Of course not, Potter. I don’t think that.”

He pressed another kiss right under his first, “Tell me whatever you need to get off your chest.”

He took a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain everything to Harry. “Snape was… Not like you know him. I know he won you over, showed some memory of your mum or something. It spread like wildfire after You-Know-Who was killed.”

“He knew my mum,” he added, “Since they were kids. Cried over her, swore to help Dumbledore.”

“Yeah. He swore to help me too.”

Harry went quiet.

Draco sighed, shifted his head, “I don’t really… remember how it started. My memories are so blurry from Hogwarts. I can’t help but think that someone was trying to cover them. It took me forever to even realize that they weren’t dreams and by the time I did, I mean-- I was a Death Eater. And Snape had taken a Vow. And it… It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.” He shook his head. “I didn’t know any better for the longest time. And he took advantage of that.”

Harry stayed quiet, his face pressed against the crook of Draco’s neck. Draco inhaled, and even though he hadn’t said much, he felt a massive weight fall off of him. He still felt crushed from the inside out, but a small part of it was gone. 

“I had no idea.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve-- I--” he swallowed, his voice on the verge of breaking from either sadness or anger, Draco couldn’t tell.

“You don’t have to do that, alright? It’s all done, anyway. He’s dead.”

Harry kissed the back of Draco’s ear with a gentleness Draco would’ve never guessed he possessed. “Stay the night again.”

Draco paused, “Okay, well, I get you have needs, Potter, but I don’t think now is the best time to express them.”

He laughed, slipping his arms around Draco and holding him close, “No, I just mean-- I’d like to have you here. I--I’d like to hold you.”

“Mm. You’re direct,” Draco said, his face getting hotter and hotter by the second. 

“I’ll take you back to your place if you need to get stuff, but… I would really like you to stay over one more night, Draco. You shouldn’t have to deal with those memories all by yourself.”

“I have friends, Potter.”

“No, I know, I just mean-- You should have someone you can talk to. When’s the last time you talked about that stuff?”

“None of your business.”

“Well, I can bet it wasn’t recently. It might bring it all up again, at least it does for me, with everything that happened at Hogwarts. And maybe it’ll be easier to handle if you have someone who you don’t have to explain it to, someone you’ve already opened up to.”

“Feels like that’s the most thinking you’ve done since seventh year.”

Harry scoffed, “Ha.”

There was a moment of contemplative silence between them. Draco knew he had the control in the situation. Harry couldn’t force him to stay, nor could force him to say anything else. Hell, Draco could get up and leave without saying a word and Harry would probably find a way to make himself feel better about it. That possibility made Draco’s choice all that more satisfying. 

“Why don’t you come over to mine?”

“Mm. I wouldn’t mind. Lemme pack a bag.”

\--

It was his own room in his own house, and yet Draco felt possessed. It wasn’t scary, it didn’t eat him alive-- it gave him a new skin, a new aura. Harry’s fingers were heavy on his tongue, his hand gentle on between his legs. 

He lost track of time, lost track of where or who he was, lost track of Harry, and his mouth, and his hands. The glow from a tall lamp was all Draco could process along with pure pleasure. Like a mountain peak, like the crest of a wave, Draco swelled with something otherworldly, glowed as his own sun, and breathed as though his breath could shift galaxies, as though his lungs themselves were galaxies. 

For so long Draco had been so scared of this exact kind of vulnerability. For someone to know anything his body had been through and to respond with kindness felt too close to pity-- it always ended up feeling like pity. But Harry (and his mouth, and his hands) did not feel like pity. He felt like affection.

Draco laughed, staring up at his ceiling like it was the most beautiful painting he had ever seen. “It’s never felt like that before,” he said, now lying on his back, his fingers entangled with Harry’s.

“No?” Harry asked, “Like what?”

“Like…” Draco hesitated, “Like I’ve swallowed stars.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please do leave comments and kudos <3


End file.
